


i've moved your mountains (and marked your cards)

by paperdragon



Category: Interstellar (2014)
Genre: F/M, all the shippy things, no i do not need an intervention, what do you mean i'm not studying for midterms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:26:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2666888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdragon/pseuds/paperdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there are tales of sacrifice, and they go like this:</p>
<p>a girl is too busy choking on her own tears to scream <i>nonono.</i></p>
<p>a man who decidedly saves the future and the past in exchange for an unknown death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i've moved your mountains (and marked your cards)

**Author's Note:**

> written for the agonizing lack of interstellar fanfiction (especially for this pairing), also for the people like me who have been obsessively checking the brand/cooper tag to find any fanfiction. i don't have a beta, so mistakes are mine. i don't own the characters, either.

there are tales of survivors, and they go like this:

a woman and her idle hands, hanging by her side as she stands up, brushing dirt off her clothes, she used to scratch the skin lined along her nails as a child when she was nervous and they’d bleed and her father had taken to taping her fingers, once, twice, until the sharp slice of plastic made her hand throb, made touching her nails without wincing impossible. her hands feel dry, rough, same hands that she’d painted red on her first date with edmunds, blue on the second. she closes them, opens them and repeats until she feels as if she’s doing something other than not crying.

.

there are tales of explorers, and they go like this:

a man on a mission, wide-eyed and refusing to except wonder, looking at the stars of the universe, desperate to return to a grown-up still in waiting. he holds the controller with one hand, the other seemingly forgotten and guides them through a scar of the universe with his heartbeat, steady and loud. _truth,_ he thinks, laughs, almost snarls; a voice in his head tells him to stop and he doesn’t.

a man desperate to make good on a promise years old, desperate to return to red hair and the same eyes, he presses his lips together and tries to fight sleep in a cryo-pod.

.

there are tales of sacrifice, and they go like this:

a girl is too busy choking on her own tears to scream _no no no._

there is a man who decidedly saves the future and the past in exchange for an unknown death.

.

There are tales of reunions and they go like this:

a girl on a another planet can feel her hands shake and her throat close, raw and burning, insanity curled around like a rabid snake, ready to pounce. he runs to her as if she is water after a century in a desert and something breaks inside her and all she can do is feel his arms around her, warm and assuring, and let the salty tears mark tracks down her face and beg silently for him to never let go.

a man who encloses her as if she might disappear and sinks down to his knees, still holding her; he can feel the anger and the blame and the guilt viciously passing off her on to him and suddenly, he is pressing his lips into her hair to answer questions that cannot be voiced aloud.

.

she lies with her ear pressed to his chest and counts his heartbeats and he laces one of his hands with hers. tomorrow they will go back to their own separate identities, her with her mask and him with his own. today is reconciliation, today is future and past and present and allows them to escape the dimension of their created personalities and exist as who they are; who they’re too afraid, too smart to be.   

she keeps looking at the wall and then speaks, cracked. “i didn’t need you.” she starts, but her voice sounds too much like she hasn’t talked for years, so she coughs and tries again, a little bit louder, a little bit deeper. “you didn’t have to come back, y’know. i’d have been okay.”

she sounds angry, yet too relieved to say something about it, not yet, not now, not _today._

“i know.” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say, but that’s a lie, he does know. “i wanted to.”

her hand tightens on his, cold to the touch, suddenly and he feels delirious from it.

.

there are tales of love, and they go like this:

the girl doesn’t spend too much time thinking on it and he refuses acceptance of anything close.

nevertheless, she wakes up with her head on his shoulder and some days he is roused from sleep and he can feel his fingers combing through the soft hair at the nape of his neck and neither says a word.

sometimes he will lay his head in her lap and she’ll allow it and act annoyed even when she likes it. sometimes she will wake up from dreams of gigantic tidal waves and a friend dead because of her and she’ll cry in a way he’s never seen her cry and he’ll know when to go to her, to fight her anger and put his arms around her and he’ll know when to go, when to leave her to her own self the way she does for him when he doesn’t talk for days and stares at the stars.  

they know each other too well, too well to ever not be enough.

accepting that, however, is a matter left for easier times.

.

there are tales of many things, but not of this:

the way she tastes when he kisses her, the way her hands curl and grab handfuls of his shirt to keep him there, the way it’s rushed, hurried, as if time isn’t a friend but a scorned lover who runs without ever looking back, or the way the rain feels in her hair and tastes when he licks her bottom lip or when she pushes his back forcefully into a rock and kisses him roughly, lips bruising.

neither are there accounts of how it is angry, demanding, as if nothing other than it has mattered and they’ve taken too long to realize it, or how it leaves her marking her nails down his back and his teeth marked on her shoulder, how the rain feels, too cool on heated skin.   

there never will be, because, well, theirs is a story untold to anyone other than them.

.

there are tales of love, and they go like this:

they yell like old lovers, fight loudly and scream and throw things and barricade doors. in the end, she sleeps beside him, curled, breathing down his neck and he strokes her hair as she does.   

she keeps holding his hand and he does not let go.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ugh, wrote this in a hour and i feel completely drained. i'm pretty sure this isn't the last of my writing escapades, especially for these two (oh hello there new OTP i didn't see you there), but i might go silent for a while after because my midterms are in three days. 
> 
> anyhow, i hope this was up to parr and that you liked it. thanks for reading, and shoot me a comment if you liked it, or if i could have changed something to make it better.
> 
> THE MOVIE THO


End file.
